The Demons Beneath the Road
by amie94
Summary: Sherlock's been living with his God-daughter, Cyra Elizabeth Brooke, since past six years. The remarkable feature of interest is that she can't remember her life before those six years. Witness Sherlock and Cyra fight with the demons of their past. Rest of the summary inside. SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4.
1. Chapter 1

**_AN: Sherlock's not mine. I should just die of heartbreak saying that._**

 ** _I know Parentlock had been done before. But I assure you this won't be like those over-affectionate or over-ignorant or purely daddy-lock based stories. Trust me there will be more than enough of murder, mystery and mayhem to balance out the fluff and not to mention humour._**

 ** _Infact Sherlock is not technically the father or a relative of my OC. Then who is he? Well, read this chapter and find out._**

 ** _In addition to the 12 BBC Sherlock original episodes, I will be adding my own cases in between too. Expect some non-drastic original plot alterations. Also good news for those who absolutely loved season 4, there will be brief and insignificant references to that season throughout the story. I may even attempt to write about post season 4 universe, if there's a demand. Next update is scheduled for either tomorrow or the day after. So here goes nothing._**

 **CHAPTER 1**

"JESUS H. FUCKING CHRIST!" I jolted awake disoriented. And wet. I was dowsed in fucking ice cold water at 5 fucking a.m.

Again.

I suppose it is one of the many occupational hazards of working with the world's only consulting detective, worsened by the fact that I live with the said consulting detective because apparently according to him its a perfectly okay thing to do to one's colleagues and flatmates.

"As ever, Cyra, your rather colourful early morning vocabulary never fails to astound me. Yet again you found an interesting way to demean a catholic deity who by a large section of commonwealth is considered none other than God himself, though of course this insult is of little to no consequence to me as I myself believe that God is a ludicrous fiction dreamt up by the inadequates, but if I may add that this kind of language in general-"

"No, you may not."

"I'm sorry?"

"Piss off, Holmes. Really not in the mood for your monotonous monologue at 5 in fucking morning." I mutter rubbing my temples. Ugh! The blasted headache. Why is it aching anyway? Oh right. "Which reminds me by the way WHAT THE FUCK HOLMES! Why in the fucking fuck am I fucking wet in my bed at 5 FUCKING a.m.?" I shouted at his unamused expression.

"You were annoying me." he replied, unfazed.

"By sleeping?" I asked incredulously, already going down my list of 101 ways to kill Sherlock Holmes. Number 38 would do very nicely at the moment. All I need is some ninety eight percent hydrochloric acid solution, which is never far.

"Please." He rolled his eyes. "Screaming bloody murder is more like it." He mocked using wild hand gestures.

"The balance of probability says that you were having one of those episodes of yours." He added more quietly looking anywhere but at me.

Oh. That explains the pounding headache.

"You mean nightmares." I muttered suddenly deflated.

"Nope. One can at least recall seeing a nightmare, even if its a mere glimpse or a trace of a memory, especially if its quite frequent and so intense as to make one scream like a banshee in the middle of the night each time. In ninety one point three percent of cases its highly probable for an individual to remember a few of his subconscious thoughts consciously."

"People don't always remember their dreams." I said in a small voice already he was right but refusing to admit that anything's wrong with me.

"The balance of probability-"

"Okay! Okay! Fine! But can't you at least find a more pleasant way to snap me out of my 'episodes' as you put it?" I asked making air quotes on the word 'episodes'. Jeez. Trust the drama queen to make everything look more dramatic than it really was. They were probably just nightmares. People forget their dreams all the time. Right? And isn't this better anyway? I, for one, am thankful I can't remember something possibly scary and terrifying. I have enough troubles in my life to deal with other than haunting dreams. The better half of the said troubles was currently standing over me, frowning.

"No, it's less tedious, quicker and more efficient this way." He answered in a matter of fact voice. Of fucking course it was.

"Nevermind. I am wide awake now and not screaming or annoying. Why are you still here?" I asked rubbing my temples tiredly, dismissing him.

"Um. I... uh..." He clears his throat and I widen my eyes in absolute horror. Oh no. Here it comes. "I think it is incumbent upon me to insist that perhaps it's time you should consult with a- " He clears his throat again. "A...a th-therapist-"

Mayday! Mayday! He used the fucking T- word.

"MRS. HUDSON!" I shouted, cutting him off mid-sentence. Sherlock closed his eyes sighing defeated.

"What is it dearie?" The kind old lady peeks into her room. "Isn't it a bit too early for your morning coffe- wait, why are you wet-" Suddenly her eyes widen and her sweet and kind face transforms into an angry scowl. "SHERLOCK HOLMES! Tell me you did not just do what I think you did. Not Again! Listen to me young man, if the poor girl catches pneumonia and dies, I will bury you alive at the cemetery and perform my classic exotic dance number on your grave."

" Ha! I would pay to see that." I chortled, trying to picture it, feeling more relieved now that Mrs. H is here.

"You can't 'cause you'll be dead and you, Mrs Hudson-"

"Oh hush! You've done enough." I smile inwardly. Once again, Mrs. Hudson saved the day. God do I love her. "Oh poor dear, look at you." I immediately transform my amused expression into a miserable one. I even faked a cough as she fusses over me. Adding to the mix, the wide puppy-dog eyes and some quivering lips for good measure and ta-da- unsuspecting Mrs Hudson was in a full protective, mama-bear mode, ready to unleash her fury upon anyone who so much as looked my way. Unfortunately for Sherlock, at the moment that 'anyone' was him. "Don't you dare bother her in her state Sherlock, or you're going to regret it! Look at how pale she is!" I sniffled for the effect. Thank god for my generally pale complexion. "Oh my poor dear, let me run a nice warm bath for you and put the kettle on for some coffee. That'll bring some colour to your face, I'm sure."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at my dramatics and I smirk at him smugly when Mrs Hudson turns her back.

"I fail to decide whether to be alarmed or proud at your well refined acting skills." He said grudgingly with a pout. Oh not the pout please. I am not equipped with enough wits this early in the morning to deal with a pouting Sherlock.

"Only you, Sherlock Holmes, can give a compliment while looking like you tasted a sour grape!" I huffed. "Again, why are you still here anyway? Get out. Don't you have a mind palace to revisit or something?"

"Cyra..." His voice takes on a worried note which in turn worries me. Was I that loud this morning? Then why the hell can't I remember? Ugh! The fucking headache returned with vengeance. It nearly made me wince. I heard Sherlock release a long sigh and then he added softly, "I'll get you something for your headache."

I open my eyes and smile at him gratefully, knowing he had dropped the subject- for now anyway.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Its eight in the morning. Mrs. Hudson had gone out. I was lying on the sofa, legs hanging over the arms and nose buried in my 'The Lord of Rings' copy. Sherlock was lounging in his chair cleaning his bow. Curious. He does that only when...

Suddenly I hear the door downstairs open and the sound of all too familiar lazy footsteps coming upstairs, with the umbrella in tow. No.

"You didn't." I glared at Sherlock.

"Yes I did." He said quietly. He had the bloody decency to look sheepish. The cock.

Well fuckedy fuck. I must have really scared him this morning if he was desperate enough to turn to Mycroft and actually invite him here. He never invites him here. Never.

"He has no right you know. Technically you're my only legal guardian." I mutter petulantly.

"I know. But that had never stopped him before, had it? " He added sourly, as he continued to fuss over his bow with exaggerated concentration.

"Oi what are you sulking for? You're the one who invited the bloody Queen of England here!" I whined and threw my book at his face. He dodged it easily without even looking up. Bastard. I turned to lie facing the back of the sofa. Not in the bloody mood to face the bloody Spanish Inquisition- or in this case the British Inquisition.

"You left me no choice. But that doesn't mean I have to like it." Sherlock continued.

The door opened and the ever graceful and poised Mycroft Holmes walked in. Not that I could see him of course. But let's admit it, the man's got an air of elegance to rival that of the Queen herself.

"Greetings, brother mine." Mycroft drawled in his fake-pleasant posh accent.

"Mycroft." he replied coldly. "I see you've gained four pounds."

I smirked. This was Sherlock's standard way of greeting Mycroft and it had its desired effect- getting on his nerves.

"Just two and a half thank-you very much." Came his reply, no doubt with that condescending smile of his. I don't have to turn around to picture it.

"Three and a half." I asserted confidently.

"And how do you deduce that, Cyra dear? You haven't even looked at me."

"Obvious." I replied in the same obnoxiously arrogant manner Sherlock does. "By the creak of sixth step as you climbed the stairs below. It was a little more pronounced this time." I added smugly, turning my head to look at him as if to confirm my deduction. " Yep. Three and a half precisely."

Sherlock snorted, no doubt seeing through my fibbing, but no less entertained I presume.

"As, ever brother dear, your influence over her never fails to astound me." Mycroft settled in the seat opposite Sherlock.

"I would take that as a compliment." Sherlock replied evenly.

"Of course you would. But her classmates and teachers at school won't be so generous in their opinions I'm afraid." He added in the same condescending tone, no doubt with the same smile slash grimace adorning his features.

Damn it all! I didn't plan on spending this morning picturing Mycroft's facial expressions in my head as he spoke. Regardless, he didn't deserve my ire- not yet atleast. The sheer honor rested upon the shoulders of the great Sherlock Holmes only. Besides, I was fond of Mycroft and happy to see him despite the reason he was here. So I got up grudgingly. This had gone long enough already and Mycroft hasn't even started with me yet. Better to get the hell on with it then.

"Donot speak about me in third person. I am standing right here Holmeses. Also, my classmates and teachers can kiss my arse." I skipped to Mycroft's side and kissed his cheek in greeting.

"Ah, glad you finally decided to finally join us properly, dear. These pleasantaries were getting rather tiresome." He patted my back affectionately with one of his rare genuine smiles. "Though, If I may add, the quality of your language leaves much to be desired for."

"No you may not, Mycroft." I mock glared him. He maybe a cold, condenscending and a royal pain in the arse on the surface, but deep down in his heart of hearts, he was like a sweet-old-little teddy bear who loved to fuss over those very few people he cared about.

I happened to be one of those people.

And I always give him hell for it.

"If you think that was vulgar, I would have loved to see your reaction earlier this morning, being at the receiving end of one of her passionate rantings, abundant in variety of various choice words-actually just one particular word used in various forms to be more precise. I assure you, you would have busted a vein, brother dear."

"A delightful prospect for you no doubt." I spat at him through my gritted teeth and turned towards Mycroft. The hostess in me taking over for the moment. "Shall I make some tea?"

"A tea would be very nice, thankyou dear."

"I could use some tea too." added Sherlock.

"Make your own damn cup." I grumbled at him on my way to kitchen.

"Language, young lady!" came Mycroft's rebuke.

 **Third person's POV**

"Again in the dog house brother dear?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows with barely suppressed glee. "What have you done this time?"

"Don't gloat!" Sherlock all but spat at him. "That's not the reason I summoned you. And I'm pretty sure you will me joining me in my so-called dog-house very soon. You're hardly ever out of it."

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock was right. He was never her favourite out of the two of them. She had always like Sherlock better. He was more humane of the two and definitely much less strict. When it came to teenagers that always helped. Regardless. He didn't care about these silly things normal people concerned themselves with. Stupid goldfishes, the lot of them. He just wanted Cyra and Sherlock safe and happy. But if he was to be painfully honest with himself, it always gave him some kind of childish satisfaction when Cyra favoured him over Sherlock. And this was one of those rare occasions. So, naturally it was hard not to gloat.

Though, the worry behind Sherlock's angry scowl sobered him up instantly.

Back to business now.

"How bad was it this time?" asked Mycroft.

"An eight."

"An eight!" Mycroft's face aged a few years sitting right there and then. "Last I heard, it was a five and that too weeks ago. If you're exaggerating Sherlock, which has always been one of your less favourable virtues, rest assured, I will-"

"Oh spare me the lecture Mycroft, I am perfectly serious." Sherlock's tone became almost scathing. "I may have neglected to inform you of the increasing frequency of her nightmares since the last time we talked but I would never joke about Cyra's health and you are very well aware of the fact. Therefore do refrain from insulting my sensibilities with your incredulity."

Both of them glared daggers at each other, fuming silently.

"Very well." Mycroft spoke after a very long minute. "What do you propose we do, little brother?"

"I tried to talk to her-"

"Ah. That must have gone down very smoothly." Mycroft mocked.

"You've no idea."

"Oh don't I?" he said more to himself, remembering the time she had to live with him when Sherlock was in the rehab.

"She didn't even let me say the word properly.l"

"Mrs Hudson was called upon I presume?"

"Mrs Hudson loves her like a grand-daughter she never had and she used that to her best advantage, the little minx." He muttered with grudging respect in his tone. "You should have seen her expression this morning. She could give all of the acting industry a run for their money and she's barely fifteen." He added fondly, a tight smile grazing his lips.

"And you take pride in that, don't you?"

Sherlock merely smirked.

"Well he most certainly should, shouldn't he?" entered Cyra, holding a tea tray with three cups and biscuits, smirking right back. "When it comes to dramatics he's the one I look up to." she added with a wink towards Sherlock.

Sherlock's smirk transformed into a full blown, eye-crinkling, dimple-deepening smile. No matter how tiresome it was to deal with her, there wasn't a single moment in the day when he wasn't proud of her. Not that he would ever admit it to her of course.

As Mycroft gazed upon scene unfolding in front of him- the two people he cared a great deal about caught in a moment of affectionate exchange-he couldn't help but feel all warm and light inside. All his stress regarding threats of terrorism, rogue nations, compromised operations even the mysterious episodes of Cyra vanished in that moment. It was the little happy moments such as these, that he allowed himself to indulge in occasionally which humanised him to some extent, that to momentarily. So, whenever these rare moments occured, he would lock them away in his memory palace for possible future revisits.

Sherlock, knowing he was back in his young companion's good graces- going by the state of tea-tray which was holding a set of three tea cups instead of two, she earlier promised- shared a look with his older brother and felt his momentarily content expression reflected upon his own face too.

Yes, Cyra can be a foul-mouthed, ungrateful, unpleasant and a rude problem child sometimes but at the same time she's a brilliant, beautiful, loving, forgiving and a kind young lady they have had the pleasure of raising. And yes they had every right to beam with pride because of her.

Then there was the matter of her episodes, no doubt they had everything to do with the unpleasant, suppressed memories of her early childhood before she came to live with him. Obviously, she doesn't remember any of that, kind of like her terror filled dreams. Nobody knew what or who haunts her, but going by growing intensity and frequency of her terror filled screams and sobs every other night, Sherlock knew that those memories would surface soon.

Besides he had the strangest feeling. Some may discard the very idea of a premonition but he believed that the intutions are not to be ignored as they represent data processed too fast for the concious mind to comprehend. He was afraid of the unknown and that was the very worst kind of fear one could ever have. Something was coming. Something big. Whether it had anything to do with Cyra's suppressed memories or not he did not know and he didn't like not knowing. In any case, her recurrent nightmares filled him with a feeling of extreme unease and dread for the safety of his god-daughter, Cyra Elizabeth Brooke.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER- 2

"We've been over this countless times, Cyra. Don't make me order you."

"I thought your name was My-croft not My-mother!"

Sherlock mentally face-palmed. He was both amused and annoyed at the scene he saw unfolding before him. While the sight of Mycroft losing against young Cyra in a battle of wits was always a pleasure to witness, he really wished that she would cave, just this once.

"You are dangerously close to impertinence young lady!"

"Oh am I, your highness?" she frowned, mock serious. Thick sarcasm laced her tone.

"That's it you're grounded, effective immediately."

"Intriguing." Cyra smirked deviously, leaning back against the sofa and crossing her legs- always a bad sign.

"What is?"

"Your delusionment in believing you can control me, Mycroft." She stood up and started walking back and forth, no doubt getting ready to kick arse with her sharp wit. "Undoubtedly, it has to do with your over indulgence in desserts. I think your chef's been bribed into adding some kind of a delusion-inducing drug to your pies and cup-cakes which is making you more of a pompous arse than you usually are." she said in the same robotic manner Sherlock normally does.

"Cyra-" Mycroft began, closing his eyes in defeat, knowing full well where this was going.

"I donot know to what means this plan had been intended for originally but it had rather disastrously side-tracked and had resulted in you believing that you can control your god-niece. Thus we can safely assume whoever is behind this is rather inexperienced. Therefore according to balance of probability its an inside job since its less likely for a foreign enemy to be aware of your sweet-tooth syndrome." she joined her hands in front of her and gestured to stress her point for effect.

"Cyra.."

"Continuing the process of elimination" She started walking again, quicker this time. "on aforementioned grounds, I think we can safely rule out all terrorist cells, rogue organisations, anarchists, socialists, all sorts of spies and assassins-"

"Cy-"

"Do let me finish Mycroft, Sherlock. I am hairsbreadth away from a major breakthrough here." She stopped walking immediately and got right into Mycroft's face, glaring. He sighed humoring her.

"As Sherlock had often theorised, once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Which directly leads us to the one and only possible explanation of all the facts." She nodded to herself, clasping her hands behind her back and facing them with a mock solemn look on her face.

"Which is?" Mycroft gritted out.

"Glaringly obvious. Plain as a day."

"I don't see it." adds Sherlock, rather amused now. He was only too happy to encourage her fascinating narrative.

"Plain as the nose on your face, Mykey." she said, crossing her eyes and pointing at her nose.

"Is there a point to this? What are you implying?" Mycroft was getting rather tired of his god-niece's antics.

"A woman, obviously. God you're slow." she rolled her eyes.

"A woman?" Sherlock couldn't help but ask, if only to keep her going. Oh this was precious. He was finding it agonizingly difficult not to laugh.

"Unless he's gay of course." she explained as if talking to a child. "God you really are the slow little brother, aren't you?" That shut Sherlock up. "Didn't I just say no matter how improbable, it must be the truth? Mycroft's got himself a goldfish apparently."

"CYRA ELIZABETH BROOKE-" Mycroft finally lost his cool.

"MYKE'S GOT A GOLDFISH

HE HAS A GOLDFISH" Cyra sang loudly, interrupting him.

Sherlock's bursted into a full blown laughing fit.

"Thankyou gentlemen, no need for the applause." She mocked, taking a bow. "While this had been a pleasure. But I have places to be. Laterz folks." And then she skipped happily out of the room.

"Oh, your face! Look at your face!" Sherlock wiped his eyes, wet from laughing so hard.

"You think this is funny, little brother?"

"Noo!" Sherlock exclaimed as if the very idea is presposterous and then added, "Its hillarious!" and another laughing fit followed.

"You do realize what she just did? She used your words and deduction technique against me thereby distracting both of us from the matter at hand. Additionally she exploited the fact that you just can't resist a joke on my expense and quoting you in the process was like the icing on the cake."

"I know brilliant, isn't she? By the way 'icing on the cake'? Seriously Mycroft? Is cake all you ever think about?"

"Apparently yes, since I have the 'Sweet-tooth Syndrome' as my god-niece so eloquently put it." Mycroft grimaced.

"Oh yes, that was a good one. Has a nice ring to it. Why didn't I think of that?" he frowned to himself.

"Because you've always been the slow little brother."

"You know you really should heed her advice and get your cup-cakes tested. Delusion-inducing drugs can be fatal." Sherlock sneered.

"Oh grow up brother mine. You and I, both are aware that we're playing right into her hands. If I hadn't seen the proof with my own eyes, I would've been inclined to believe that she's your biological daughter. Infact given the circumstances I'm still not entirely convinced. Are you sure she's not?"

"You're just sulking because she out-witted you again."

"Us. Out-witted us. Whose side are you on anyway?"

"Oh get over it already. I raised her and you helped. What did you expect? She isn't exactly the submssive child, she never was. Adding to mix her high IQ and dry wit, I am quite surprised, between the two of us, we didn't see this coming."

"Middle age brother mine, comes to us all." Mycroft sighed.

"I've clearly miscalculated. Inviting you and cornering her was a huge mistake. There were a number of ways this could have gone wrong. Thankfully, she kept her cool this time. Maybe we should try a different approach." He said, joining his hands under his chin.

"Such as?"

"Absolutely no idea. She's a ticking time-bomb, Mycroft." he added gravely.

"I am well aware."

"We can't just wait for her to remember-"

"Can't we?"

"What if the damage is too much for her to bear?"

"Then we help her heal, count our losses and move on."

They both sat in silence for a few minutes, brooding.

"Yes I suppose that's a good plan as any."

Sherlock agreed after releasing a long, defeated sigh. He knew he couldn't help her if she won't let him.

"I hear you're looking for a new flatmate. I would advice against it."

"And I usually care so much about your advise." Sherlock rolled his eyes, getting back to cleaning his bow.

"The last one ran away within what, four days?"

"Three and a half. Cyra didn't approve of him."

"Didn't approve? She's lucky he didn't press a lawsuit."

"He could've tried."

"If you don't mind me asking Sherlock-"

"Yes I do mind very much, thankyou."

"You seem genuinely, might I say spooked today."

"That is not a question." Sherlock muttered, already irritated.

"What are you so afraid of, Sherlock? Her demons are a thing of the past. Whatever the damage is, it's already been done."

"Is it? Something big is coming Mycroft." He got up and went to stand near the window, gazing unseeingly into the street.

"You mean 'The East Wind'? Still scared of that, little brother?"

"No, something much more sinister than a mere a childhood fable, I assure you."

"And how do you deduce that?"

"By the pricking of my thumbs." he said more to himself than Mycroft.

"Ah. An intuition. Having a premonition brother mine?"

"If one could attenuate to every available data stream in the world simultaneously, it would be possible to anticipate and deduce almost anything. Even future."

"Fascinating as always, Sherlock but I have an important conference to attend in about- " He checked his watch. "Twenty minutes."

"Don't let me hold you back." he turned to face him.

"I'll be increasing the level of survelliance, just to keep an eye on her." Mycroft said getting up.

"Like that has ever helped in her case, she's as elusive as needle in a haystack when she wants to be."

"As ever brother mine, your faith in me is reassuring." he smiled in sickenly sweet manner, then added, "Regardless, keep me informed about her episodes, will you?"

Sherlock merely grunted. Mycroft nodded then turned and left.

Just as he heard the front door open and shut as Mycroft left, his phone trilled a text-alert.

 ** _If you old ladies are done gossiping do join me at Bart's. Mycroft just left I presume? - CB_**

 ** _And how did you deduce that? - SH_**

 ** _You surprise me, Holmes. I believe it was fairly obvious. - CB_**

 ** _Do enlighten me, dear Cyra. -SH_**

 ** _I predicted the exact time it would take for the_** _**two people** **I have known for years to finish what I believe must be a rather dull conversation. I even added into consideration Mycroft's dismay and your apparent smugness, undoubtedly a direct consequence of my brilliant deductions which I showcased prior to my immediate departure. 'If one can attenuate to each strand of quivering data, the future is entirely calculable, as inevitable as mathematics.' Don't you believe that, Holmes? -CB** _

Sherlock smirked at her antics, as he quickly texted his reply.

 ** _Possibly. But unfortunately, I am inclined to believe that you can't do it. - SH_**

 ** _Why, pray tell, do you think that? -CB_**

 ** _Quite simple. You are not Sherlock Holmes. - SH_**

 ** _Fine whatever! Mycroft texted me as soon as he left Baker street._**

 ** _P.S. You are no fun :( -CB_**

 ** _Nice try. Why do you need me at Bart's? - SH_**

 ** _Since you are the famous SHERLOCK FUCKING HOLMES not me, then make a damn deduction! -CB_**

Hmm. Someone was bitter, thought Sherlock.

 ** _With what? I don't have any data._**

 ** _P.S. My middle name doesn't start with an 'F'. -SH_**

 ** _What a shame._**

 ** _D_** ** _ata: Two words- RIDING CROP. -CB_**

Sherlock grinned, already reaching for his coat and scarf. The game, it seemed, was on.

 ** _AN: Please review! John will be joining us in the next chapter. I'll try to update ASAP._**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:- Sorry for the delayed update. As usual life got in the way. But don't worry, no matter what, I will keep the chapters coming. I won't be a true Sherlock fan if I don't. This one's a bit longer. Tell me what do you think of it. Please review.**

 **C** **HAPTER 3**

"Sherlock told me that both of you are looking for a new flatmate again? What happened to previous one?" asked the ever nosy Mike Stamford.

"Oh you know the usual, he had issues with the stairs. He slipped from those stairs a lot." I made sure of it in fact, that the incompetent and obnoxious arse was face down at the first landing of stairs, each morning. "Perhaps he would be more comfortable living in a flat that's on ground floor." Or rather away with all his harsh opinions and judgemental looks regarding Sherlock's ways. Even if Sherlock did deserve them, doesn't mean that I'll stand and watch some dim-wit ridicule his sublime talents. Besides, nobody gets to bitch about Sherlock other than me.

"Poor chap. Don't worry, you'll find another flatmate soon enough." If we do find another flatmate, it's him who'll need to worry, I thought. " I'll be sure to suggest your flat if I find a decent chap in need." Stamford added.

I tried to hide my grimace. Dear god I hate overly helpful people. Sucking up suited dogs not humans. I let the silence prevail. I just love how long silences make people awkward and keen to leave you in peace.

"So I should be going, it's nearly lunch-time. Will you be alright here all by yourself?"

Ecstatic. "No, I can be kidnapped by aliens to an invisible spaceship that is right above our heads but we can't see it obviously, or I can commit suicide, jumping from here because our flatmate abandoned us to deal with the wrath of the force that is Mrs. Hudson."

" You're a funny little girl." Stamford laughed awkwardly, "Still I think you should join Sherlock in the mortuary. I don't think I should leave you all alone at the roof of the hospital. Accidents do happen every now and then."

Oh for fuck's sake! "Stamford, with all due respect, I see your meaning. Living with Sherlock and being his God-daughter must have made me the most suicidal subject in the history of London in your eyes, but truly, I love my life and health. In fact I love my mental health and nerves enough to not wanting to witness Sherlock beating a nasty corpse black and blue."

"Okay." he said awkwardly. "I'll be going downstairs then,"

Dear god above! If he took ten more seconds to walk through the damn roof door, he will be going down via air, to a more permanent destination this time. Though I'm quite small, but can easily manage to single-handedly push that overly helpful bag of potatoes off the edge.

Thankfully, he reacted to the murderous gleam in my eye and left quickly.

 ** _Where are you? -SH_**

 ** _Rooftop. -CB_**

 ** _Stamford? -SH_**

 ** _Left before I could push him off the ledge. - CB_**

 ** _Come at the mortuary at once, if convenient, You need to see this. -SH_**

 ** _Raincheck? -CB_**

Next text came fifteen seconds later than usual.

 ** _A_** ** _re you well? -SH_**

I hesitated. Sherlock was being concerned and fatherly again. Well, I chose Mike's company over an interesting biology experiment that he was conducting. Of course he is worried. That's twice now within a day. That must be a record or something.

 ** _The headache from the morning had returned with vengeance apparently.-CB_**

The reply was almost instant.

 ** _Get off the roof. Now, Cyra. -SH_**

He did not just- did he just order me?

 ** _Say that again. - CB_**

 ** _Headaches and heights are not a good combination. As improbable they usually seem, accidents do happen.- SH_**

Okay now he was being just as ridiculous as Stamford. Too bad he isn't up here or I would have pushed him off this roof myself.

 ** _Piss off. - CB_**

 ** _THAT'S IT! I AM COMING UP THERE AND I WILL DRAG YOU DOWNSTAIRS IF I HAVE TO. -SH_**

Okay, his concern was starting to worry me. It's only a goddamned headache for god's sake. Jesus Christ! He really was the king of drama.

 ** _Geez! Fine! Keep your hair on! They are your only attractive feature you know._** ** _P.S. Did you just use SHOUTY CAPITALS at me? I am so going home right this instant, you grumpy old man! YOUR EXPERIMENTS BE DAMNED! -CB_**

And I switched of the phone. Sherlock being fatherly had always unsettled me, though for the life of me I could never comprehend why. In any case I got off the roof grumpily and made my way downstairs through the fire exit.

I've always loved this roof. Ever since I had moved in with Sherlock, I've had a fascination with remarkable heights. Maybe I liked this new perspective and how small and insignificant the world seemed as compared to my own self. Or maybe I wanted to be closer to the unreachable and infinite skies. Growing up, it provided the escape I needed, a place where I could be at peace with myself and all my freakiness. Sometimes Sherlock used to give me company, to which I neither objected nor I liked. It was just all so neutral. Like our relationship most of the time. We were neutral, Sherlock and I. And that's why we get on so well sometimes.

But nowadays this roof had become my very own safe haven. Being so high above everyone gives me a sense of aloofness. Like if I am above all, they can't reach me. I could look at thousands of people from up here and no one could watch me. I was invisible here. Even for Mycroft. Which was like icing on the cake (He would applaud my choice of words I'm sure). Occasionally Dr. Hooper or Stamford would give me company, though I don't know why. Maybe the quiet serenity of this place in contrast with the witless babble that goes on down there makes them gravitate towards this place too. Or, maybe Sherlock payed them to spy on me while I'm here and he's not. I knew from experience that Sherlock can be more of an obnoxious stalker than Mycroft is, when he wanted to be.

Insufferable as they both were, I couldn't fathom a life without them.

They're my only family. They're the ones who cared whether I lived or jumped off that bloody roof after all. They're not what one would call strictly ideal parents, but regardless they're better than my biological ones. Not that I have any knowledge about who they were. I'd asked Sherlock once and he'd told me that I didn't want to know. I had agreed wholeheartedly. Somehow, I do not know how, but I knew it in my heart that I was, by far better off with the Holmeses rather than my birth-parents. This knowledge went bone-deep and I was as conscious of it as I was of my very existence. And if my parents were somehow worse than two sociopath brothers who considered themselves as each other's arch-enemies, one who was a recovering cocaine-addict and the other who was as lovable as a robot, I think I count myself lucky that I do not remember them at all. Moreover life with normal parents must be dull. I would choose a life-threatening situation including a murderous psychopath any day over being grounded by a pair of dull and stupid middle age people who think they can rule my life just because I have same DNA as them.

But I am still going home alone. He didn't get to order me around as if I am a damn child. Honestly, I had a half a mind to jump off the bloody thing just to spite him, but I think that would be a bit too dramatic, even for me. So I figured it would be best to leave him alone to his devices. I am sure he will survive. In fact he will barely notice my absence. All he needs is a damn skull to bounce off his ideas, it hardly matters if its living or dead.

THIRD PERSON'S POV

Sherlock gazed from the roof as his god-daughter got in the cab and drew away. He knew that he got on her nerves whenever he let his concern for her well-being show. He usually hides it well but roofs and blackouts are never a good combination. Cyra didn't know about her blackouts because, like her nightmares she can't remember those either. Fortunately Sherlock did and her recent nightmares indicated a possibility of blackouts. Though the odds weren't that definitive but her life was something he could never risk.

So he got back to his work, knowing she will be as safe at 221 B Baker street as she could be.

"Sherlock."

"Mike."

His demeanour with mike was even more frigid than usual. He had after all, left Cyra alone at roof despite his strict instructions to keep an eye on her. He didn't demonstrated a complex chemistry experiment in front of Mike's students for nothing.

"She was being difficult."

"She's like me, only worse because she's a girl and a teenager. Of course she was difficult, I would have been shocked if she wasn't."

"Look its not like she's suicidal, is she?"

"Thank you Mike, I won't be requiring your assistance regarding this task anymore."

"Sherlock, maybe you should get a new flat mate. Some decent chap who can keep an eye on her when you can not."

"Who would want me for a flatmate. Additionally, teenage girls are as much of a pleasure to live with as a wild hyena. Trust me, I know. So thank you so much for your assistance, but we're good."

"So I'll be off then."

"Close the door on your way out, if its not too much trouble."

CYRA'S POV

As soon as I entered the living room my phone trilled a text alert.

 ** _He is doing it again. Please make it stop. Or at least tell me how he does it. - GL_**

 ** _Define "it".- CB_**

 ** _Making the whole of the Scotland Yard look like a bunch of idiots.- GL_**

 ** _Hardly a difficult task if you ask me. -CB_**

 ** _E_** ** _xcluding you of course. -CB_**

My phone started ringing immediately.

"Hello-"

"Look, Donovan has been giving me an evil eye ever since the press conference ended. In fact every single police officer present here is looking at me as if I am the dumbest creature on this planet for consulting Sherlock Holmes. I can tolerate all of his insults, ignore the fact that despite working with him for past several years he can't even remember my first name, I can even overlook every disrespect aimed towards me by my subordinates because of my association with him but I WILL NOT STAND BY AND LET HIM RIDICULE SCOTLAND YARD in front of the MEDIA!"

"Alright! Just keep your hair on old guy! I am not with him at the moment, we had a, what you could call a disagreement."

Lestrade sighed, apparently done with his fit of anger.

"What did he do now? Was he rude towards you again? I swear to god if he was out of line-"

"Geez! What's with the over-protective fatherly instincts today? It must be something in the air. No he wasn't rude or arrogant. With Sherlock I can easily handle rude and arrogant. Instead today he was worried and caring which was even more annoying."

"Huh. Okay. Well if you um see him in a few hours tell him to lay off. They are just some ordinary suicides. Nothing interesting enough for him. If I find something of the sort I know where to find him."

"Right. See you tomorrow."

"What? Why?"

"Yes. Come on now Lestrade we both know Sherlock is hardly ever wrong. Sooner or later you're going to find something fishy and then you're going to come knocking on 221B Bakerstreet. My guess is tomorrow."

"Why tomorrow?"

"Because otherwise Sherlock would be bored and I am hoping for the best."

"You mean for some poor chap to kill himself or be murdered?" he asked incredulously.

"Its going to happen anyway. Don't be naive. Now let me go I have a thing to do."

"Fine. Bye."

After disconnecting the call, I went straight to my room and pulled out the newspaper clippings regarding the suicides that have been happening.

Sherlock had been waiting for Lestrade to consult him regarding those serial suicide cases ever since the second one happened, but Lestrade was adamant that they were not linked. Now that the third identical suicide has happened, I'm sure Sherlock wasn't able resist the temptation of rubbing it in their faces. And now the whole of Scotland Yard hates him even more.

I sighed. Blast them. I am also sure that whatever Sherlock had done, they deserved it for being the idiots that they were. Except for Lestrade of course since he was a nicest and most tolerable idiot of them all. Moreover, after Sherlock and Mycroft, its him I would call if I have to hide a body or something. A bit ironical, I know since he is a detective and everything but after the holmeses, its him that I trust the most.

These suicides though, why do I feel that they have something to do with me. I didn't know these people and neither had I ever met them. Then why did they feel so familiar, I wondered. They weren't famous or anything either. So where had I seen them?

I don't have something nearly as sophisticated and well defined as Sherlock's mind palace. But I do have something similar, something less organized and more chaotic. I can hardly call it a palace in any case. Its more like a messy lab or a community hospital or something. I can easily sift through the data that I have stored there but I'm never able to find anything relevant to my needs untill much later when it comes to me of its own accord. Nonetheless, I sat cross-legged on my bed and started sifting through the data I've stored in my mind-whatever.

I was sitting like that only when I felt a splash of ice-cold water over my face for the second time that day. Slowly, I closed my eyes. After three calculated seconds I opened them and just looked at my offender.

He took a step back.

The very next moment I pounced on him got a vicious hold on his hair nd locked my legs tightly around his chest.

"Aaarghh! Cyra! Get off me!"

"The hell I will you twit! I do not care even if you kill me in my sleep but I swear to god Holmes if you EVER so much as pin-pricked my skin while I'm in my mind palace, I will teat off every single hair follicle from your scalp, as painfully as possible.

"How was I supposed to know, you weren't respondin- " Suddenly Sherlock froze. Automatically, I froze too. "What did you say?" And then I realized my slip up. I immediately let go of his hair and unwrapped my legs from around his chest and landed on my feet. Sherlock didn't know I had a mind palace.

"I...um-"

"You have a mind palace."

"Not exactly-"

"Since when?"

"Holmes, listen-"

"SINCE WHEN?!" Sherlock shouted in a way only he can. I had no choice. I was cornered.

"A-a while." I sighed looking at my feet, unable to meet his eye.

"Four years." Sherlock's voice became so low that he was hardly audible. "Four years I tried to teach you how to construct a mind palace and you said you couldn't."

"Sh-Sherlock I-I kn-know that y-you wanted m-me t-to rre-re-rem -" Fuck. Did I mention that I have this humiliating tendency to stammer when I am emotional or stressed. Impatient as Sherlock is, one can imagine how much this would get on his nerves so just stopped talking to not to make matters worse.

Sherlock finally sighed after one long minute of silence.

"Yes I wanted you to remember, your past, your dreams, anything. Even a tiny detail. A smidge of information. But you said you couldn't. And now you do remember obviously. And you didn't tell me." There was an unasked question that asserted itself in his matter of fact statements. Why. Why didn'I tell him.

"No I don't." I said after I'd calmed myself. "I don't remember anything."

"You can't possibly have a memory palace, without knowing all your memories, unless-" His eyes widened suddenly. "Unless you have deleted it. Tell me you haven't." Sherlock shook my shoulders almost roughly. I hardly noticed it though, as I was locked in his cold blue, piercing gaze. I gulped.

"N-not cc-conciously atleast."

"Of course." He spitted out. "Only you, Cyra, would have a memory palace, without any knowledge of a significant part of your memories." He ruffled his hair in frustation.

"Its n-not the significant p-part-"

"Cyra-"

"NO IT IS NOT!" I shouted. Sherlock didn't get it. Maybe there is a reason why I can't remember a thing. Maybe I was better off without that knowledge. I stood up and went to stand beside my window. "I re-rem-remember ever-everything that is-is wo-worth remembering." I said in a small shaking voice. Do not cry Cyra, I thought, YOU WILL NOT CRY.

Living with Sherlock had been many things. It had been difficult, annoying even life threatening at times. But it was also fun, adventurous, extra-ordinary, filled with some rare heart-warming moments also. And I would not have it any other way. No one ever gave a fuck about me, not my biological parents or any relatives that I might have had. But Sherlock did. He cared for me enough to tolerate another living, breathing existence in his home, in his life. He cared enough to leave his drug addiction for me- though he won't ever admit it. It was for "not letting his invaluable talent go to waste" apparently- but I knew that I also must have factored in there somewhere. So yes, when I say that my memories of life with Sherlock Holmes are the only memories that matter to me, I mean it. I don't give a fuck about my past, never have, nor I will in future. And Sherlock needed to get that straight.

I heard Sherlock walking towards me. In the reflection from the window pane his expression wasn't clear but I saw him raise his arm as if to squeeze my shoulder or console me or something. I closed my eyes in expectation of the much needed yet dreaded human contact. For once in my life I wanted to relish in it. But I knew if I allowed myself this liberty, I will surely cry. And Holmeses never cried. So I did what I had to.

I cleared my throat, breaking the moment.

Sherlock's hand paused and he let it drop.

"So how did you do it?" he finally asked.

"Did what?" I turned to face him.

"Keep up, will you? Mind palace. The when, the why, the how."

"I didn't lie to you back, I really wasn't able to do it, until one day, few weeks after you gave up on the whole idea, I was. It sort of created itself you know. I didn't make a conscious effort. Actually we were on a case and I was trying to memorize something so I just gave it a shot. And lives depended on that shot, remember?"

"Ah, when you managed to remember the number plates of all those trucks. Hm, on reflection it was obvious since it is nearly impossible to memorize that much data without using your mind palace. I remember I was very close to being impressed by it."

"Too bad I can't say the same for you Holmes. You're getting slow. All these months and you weren't able to deduce that I have a mind palace too."

"Middle age dear, comes to us all." Sherlock smirked good naturedly.

"Now you are quoting Mycroft. It's really the end of days, isn't it?"

Sherlock just laughed and shook his head. It was my favourite sound in the world. Damn, that was cheesy. This impossible man was making me soft. Better change the subject now.

"Chinese takeout?"

"Please, I'm famished." And we fell into our usual playful banter. Just as I dialed the restaurant he added, "Oh I almost forgot to mention, Mike found us a new flatmate. He'll come by tomorrow to see the flat."

I dropped my mobile.

Mike.

I should have pushed him off the roof when I had the chance.

Sherlock just gave a snort, clearly onto my thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

"No young lady, absolutely not. Those big puppy eyes won't work this time." said Mrs Hudson in a stern voice. Yes, as a matter of fact my eyes were big, baby blue and innocent looking. And I will be damned if I didn't take advantage of the fact.

"Mrs Hudson, please! We don't need a flatmate!"

I was rearranging our book-shelves again, this time according to my inner catalogue of the number of times I have read each book (which Sherlock couldn't possibly guess), in descending order. Further, I was sub-categorising them according to the number of dog eared pages in each (Which Sherlock could have easily guessed, if only he had half as much patience as was needed to do so). Not only was it a therapeutic process for me, but also I would love to watch Sherlock aka Mr. obsessive-compulsive attempting to figure this one out.

 _More like tearing half of his hair out in frustration._

Oh he absolutely loathes it when _I_ shelve them.

"Look dear, I had left this decision to Sherlock when you both had moved in. So whatever problem you have with this person, you should take it up with Sherlock. I am sorry but I cannot help you this time sweetheart."

 _Deep breaths, focus on shelving. Do not kill the landlady_.

Which reminds me-"But you're the Landlady! Technically, you do have a say in this." Even after all the effort my voice had risen significantly. Focus Cyra! And there goes the one about synthesis of various poisons right next to Harry Potter and the prisoner of Askaban.

"Cyra! Like I have already said, its between you and him, I want no part of it. And you haven't even met him. I'm sure, he must be a decent chap. Trust me, I have a good feeling about this one." _And your drug-dealer husband was also a decent chap according to your flawed judgement, wasn't he?_

"Everyone is nice and decent in your eyes Mrs Hudson." I rolled my eyes. "You know, I am perfectly capable of contributing towards the rent, I can easily get a job-"

"Do shut up, Cyra." entered Sherlock from the kitchen, where he had been conducting his latest experiment, "I think we have discussed this already. Also I find your constant whining a shade annoying." _Whining?_ _Did he have a death wish?_

"I am not whining! I'll have you know that I'm applying myself to a tedious task so as not to murder you in cold blood."

"Fascinating." I bit back my grin when I noticed a faint trace of alarm in his expression when he saw what I was doing. "Rearranging the books again, I see. Any chance you might want to share how you're arranging them this time?" I scoffed at his overt ambitiousness. Like I had ever told him before. "I'll take that as a no."

"Wow! You really are a proper genius, aren't you?" I mocked.

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."

"Well since I'm not in high spirits or anything, guess I'll have to work with the low wit."

"Come on! Now you're just purposefully being childish."

"You are one to talk!" I narrowed my eyes at him accusingly.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Sherlock came over and started inspecting my handiwork. His brain no doubt working overtime to find out the pattern this time. _Best of luck with that._

"Greg called. He said you embarrassed him and his team in front of several news reporters just because he didn't consult with you on this one. Now that isn't childish at all!"

"Who's Greg?" He muttered distractedly.

 _Oh for the love of god!_

"For the 20,655th time Holmes, he's our friend and DI at Scotland Yard."

"Friend? I don't have friends and I only associate with Lestrade. Is this DI new?"

J _esus H. Roosevelt Christ!_

"Lestrade has a first name you know!"

"And I care because?" Ugh that infuriating man.

"You know, since its so painfully easy to murder anyone as long as he's the "DI". Its a pity I never succumbed to the ever-present sweet temptation and asphyxiated you in your sleep." I gritted out.

"Hm." was all he said, focusing on the shelves. I needed to shift my focus back to matter at hand too.

"Holmes, I want to get myself a job. I will help you pay the rent and we wont need another flatmate. Its a win-win situation for all of us." I implored to him one last time.

"Jobs are dull and completely unnecessary in your case." He said in his usual monotone.

"So are flatmates."

"This conversation is getting repetitive and boring. I have other things to do. So if you will excuse me." He finally gave up his attempt to figure out how I'm shelving our books.

"What things? You solved your last case yesterday. The brother was it?" I attempted to make a small talk in order to stall him while I thought of different arguments I can still make to help my case.

"Yep." His tone sharp and clipped. More so than usual. No doubt peeved at his inability to solve the great puzzle of the book shelves. Yes I am smug as fuck.

"How so?"

"He had a green ladder."

"Oh. Figures." I said, though I didn't have the faintest idea what was he talking about. Still I needed to make one last attempt. "Can I at least work at the cafe downstairs, right Mrs Hudson?" I purposefully addressed Mrs Hudson instead of him this time. Showing him that his opinion means bollocks to me.

 _Liar Lair!_

"Um-" Mrs Hudson glanced at Sherlock for help. _You're the Landlady for god's sake. Grow a fucking spine!_

"No she cannot." he said, cutting Mrs Hudson off. Blast him.

"You can't stop me, Holmes." I stared him down through narrowed eyes. _Yes he can,_ my inner voice disagreed. It needs to shut the fuck up..

"Oh can't I? I haven't checked." He looked at the ceiling with a deep frown, rubbing his chin dramatically. "Wait a minute, yes I can. Legal guardian." He grinned, eyes wide, gesturing towards his chest. Then he pointed towards me by adding, "Still a minor."

 _Overdramatic. Cocky. Jerk._

"I can very well move out or run away or elope, you know." Though both of us knew that wasn't happening. Not after what happened during my most recent attempt.

 _Clusterfuck, that's what._

"Won't be the first time, I daresay, and it certainly won't be the last. Though by all means, you can try." He said as a matter of fact, smirking all the while. Then he moved to shrug on his coat and tie his muffler.

"Smug bastard!" I muttered under my breath, as I watched him move towards the door.

"I heard that." He turned back and smiled at me endearingly, his eyes crinkling and I sighed. I can never stay mad at this man. And he knew that too.

"I meant you too, you git!" I grudging smiled back. He then came back and crouched in front of so we were at same eye level. Then he gently held me by shoulders in a very un-Sherlock like manner. I immediately got suspicious. _He is not going to hug me, is he?_ Tender moments do not sit well with me. Period.

"Contrary to what you might think my dear, I do have a vague idea about how you have arranged those books," And just like that, his tender smile was replaced by a self-satisfied smirk. _Arse_! "-its roughly according to your personal preference, maybe not based merely on something as simplistic as your liking, so something a bit complex, yet just as personal so I wouldn't know, probably something more statistical such as the number of times you have read each one. Not sure about the sub-category though but I can see its something vaguely related to their condition, I'll figure the details out once I'm back." Then he proceeded to kiss my forehead followed by a wink directed towards Mrs Hudson and one final "See you in evening, ladies." And just like that, he left us staring after him, mouths agape. _That brilliant, infuriating genius._

"He can't really resist a touch of dramatic, can he?" asked Mrs Hudson still looking towards the door.

 _No shit.Thank the lord we don't have gongs anymore._

"I just know one thing, Mrs Hudson."

"And what's that, dearie?"

"I am arranging those books all over again."

"Oh dear."

~tdbtr~

"They're here" said Mrs Hudson excitedly from the window.

"Oh joy!" I mocked her excitement as I sat in Sherlock's chair.

"Behave." she admonished, "Now I don't know what grudge you are holding against this fellow, but I think you should at least give him a chance."

I just made a face at that. _Never happening._

I heard the door downstairs open followed by the sound of two pairs of foot steps and was that the sound of a walking cane? I smirked. _It will be fun to scare this one off._ The door to the living room opened and she stood up to greet our new visitor: A short average looking blonde guy with a buzz cut - _ex-military perhaps?_ \- and a limp. _Ah, injured in war._

That explains the walking stick alright. _Knee injury perhaps? Or was it the ankle?_ Going by his standing posture, neither of above. _Interesting_. Everything about him screamed "kind and laid back next-door guy" but there was a lingering trace of severity in his eyes and something else, frustration perhaps? Anger? But something there hinted at a much darker, dangerous side to his otherwise jovial looking personality. Sherlock interrupted my train of thought with the introductions.

"Mrs Hudson, Dr Watson." he convenient failed to mention me. No doubt peeved at the fact that I was currently occupying his chair.

 _Real mature, Holmes._ I rolled my eyes.

"Nice to meet you" John shaked hands with Mrs Hudson. Then his eyes fell on me and he frowned momentarily, confused no doubt. I looked away indifferently. "That must your daughter?" He asked. I waited smugly for Sherlock to answer that one.

"Oh no dear, she's um-" started Mrs Hudson. _What? Did he honestly address that question to her_? He thought I was _her_ daughter?

 _You've got to be joking me!_

I stood up and walked towards the trio, arms folded in front of my chest. Sherlock looked at me in mild alarm, having deduced what is about to happen.

 _Hey! Don't look at me like that! The doctor is practically asking for it._

"With all due respect, do I look like her daughter?" I addressed the doctor for the first time. My tone sharp.

"I am so sorry I didn't mean to presume-"

"Yet you did, didn't you? Not only did you presume, you also did it without observing all the facts. So either, you ignorantly failed to see that Mrs Hudson is clearly old enough to be my grandmother- not that she is mind you- or, you committed the capital mistake of theorising without collecting all the available data thereby biasing your judgement and making your incompetence evident. So what are you doctor, ignorant or incompetent?"

"I uh-" I had a hard time resisting the urge to laugh at his comical expression.

 _Oh god his face!_

After a long pause the doctor leaned towards Sherlock, who was sending murderous glares my way, "She's your daughter isn't she? How come you never mentioned her yesterday?"

"I apologise," began Sherlock, still glaring at me. "I might have forgotten-"

"That I existed? You wound me, father!" I clutched my chest dramatically, I am his daughter after all, in a manner of speaking, that is. "Just like you did my mother when you knocked her up during one of your frequent visits to the brothel and then abandoned us to the care of a bunch of harlots!" I dramatically turned towards the doctor as if imploring him. "You seem like a nice gentleman of good upbringing who never visited such a wretched place, doctor. So let me tell you that it sucks growing up in an environment like that where no one gives a flying fuck for your wishes and opinions, you know." Sherlock was unamused. He had become immune to my bullshitting a long time ago.

"Wow, I'm sorry, I didn't know-" started the doctor, clearly uncomfortable and unsure as to what to say.

"Don't be. It was long time ago." I replied solemnly. And then I altered my expression to a fake cheerful one, "Also I was just kidding. Cyra Elizabeth Brooke. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

If the doctor was uncomfortable before, he looked downright horrified at that moment. I walked away, pleased with myself to stand near the window and gaze outside. _My work here was done._

"Your daughter?"

"She's adopted." he gritted out, seething.

"You keep telling yourself that." added Mrs. Hudson almost to herself.

~tdbtr~

"Well this could be very nice." said the doctor, getting comfortable in the chair opposite to that of Sherlock's. He even took the Union Jack cushion, which I hated by the way.

"Yes, I think so, my thoughts precisely." Sherlock replied. What is he smiling about? _He doesn't really like him, does he?_

"Hey that's my chair!" I complained, just to annoy the doctor.

"No its not! You hate that chair." Sherlock bit back.

"I do not!"

"It was merely two days back that you mentioned and I quote 'The view of the ceiling from the sofa is much more interesting than the view of your face, Holmes. I hate this wretched chair.' "

I just huffed and threw myself back on my sofa, turning my back on them. But not before I saw the doctor raise his eyebrows. He did that a lot. This was his 17th eyebrow raise since he entered this room.

 _Judgemental prick._

As if on cue the said prick cleared his throat,

 _Way to break the tension doctor_ , I rolled my eyes."I'm guessing you must have moved in recently going by the state of things, good thing that can help you organise this mess-"

I snorted.

"I think you're mistaken Dr. Watson, this is the usual state of things around here. We moved a while ago." I said looking back.

"Oh..um okay. You can call me John by the way. No need to be formal especially if we're going to be flatmates." I have to give it to him. Despite everything I said, his eyes were nothing but kind as he smiled at me.

I scoffed, its going to take a lot more than just a warm smile to melt my iceberg of a heart.

"Thanks doctor, but if its all the same to you, I prefer Dr. Watson." I flashed him a fake-looking fake smile.

Here it comes, t _he twentieth fucking eyebrows raise_. I turned again so I was now facing our ever-fascinating ceiling.

"Don't take it too personally John, If its any consolation, she still calls me "Holmes" and I practically raised her." _Did I accidently hit a nerve? Or is Sherlock trying to make him feel better?_

"I prefer using surnames. They are more formal, professional and help in maintaining a respectable amount of distance with people."

"But you call Mycroft by his first name."

 _Is he jealous?_ _Definitely hit a nerve, I see._

"That is only because it annoys him. He actually prefers to be addressed as Mr Holmes, even by his niece. So I do the opposite." I shrugged. _Obvious. Duh!_

"And Lestrade?"

 _Seriously_?

" _Seriously_? You have the filthy, unmitigated fucking gall to ask me that question since you have never EVER used his CORRECT first name. EVER. You always have insulted the poor guy by constantly forgetting his first name, despite having known him for years. That guy always took your side no matter what his colleagues thought or said. Hell, he even saved your miserable life more times than I can count on my fingers. Your arrogant and selfish arse, on the other hand, never even so much as acknowledged him, let alone been nice to him or thanked him. So, Mr Holmes, I'm just making up for your royal pigheadedness here." I got up and moved to stand by the window again, too worked up to lie in the same place.

 _Woah! Bitchy much?_ I thought to myself. It's the doctor's fault. His very presence in this room is making me more bitchy than my usual self.

Sherlock just stared at me, perplexed, no doubt deducing the same.

Though in all honestly, I hated it whenever he acted like a dick towards him. Today it all just came out like a bad case of word-vomit. So I let the silence prevail.

L _et him stew over it._

Right on cue the doctor cleared his throat. Again. _That man is beyond annoying_. "Guess you hit a nerve there, mate." He told Sherlock, as if to break the awkward silence.

 _No shit!_

What is it with him and his dire need to fill the silences anyway? Sherlock and I never felt that particular annoying need. We were perfectly okay with long lasting silences against no opposition whatsoever. Why did he have to ruin it?

"I looked you up on the internet last night," John said suddenly and I turned briefly to look at him as I picked up my copy of The Lord of Rings flipped through the pages distractedly.

"Anything interesting?" asked Sherlock.

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction."

 _This should be interesting,_ I thought turning to look at them, closing the book.

"What did you think?" Sherlock asked him smiling proudly.

 _Here we go,_ now the judgemental prick will judge him and I will end up breaking his possibly injured leg.

John threw Sherlock a "you have got to be kidding me" type of look and I watched as Sherlock's face fell. "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone," Sherlock snapped.

 _See?_ This is exactly why I hated our flatmates. They are ignorant and useless idiots who not only judge Sherlock, but also give no regard to his genius capabilities.

"How?" John asked him incredulously. Sherlock smiled and turned away from him.

 _Smug son of a gun._

I was going to give a snarky response to the doctor but Mrs. Hudson interrupted me as she walked out of the kitchen reading the newspaper.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same," Mrs. Hudson said as I heard the sounds of a car pulling up outside from the window.

"Four," I said, as I watched Greg getting out of the police car. Sherlock immediately got up to stand beside me at the window, his game face already on "There's been a fourth," I continued ignoring the looks that were being sent our way by two pairs of eyes."

"Yes, and there's something different this time," Sherlock said after a moment.

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson asked the two of us sounding completely confused. It was then that we all heard the door opening down stairs before the sound of loud footfalls could be heard coming up the stairs. A second later Greg walked into the door.

"Where?" Sherlock asked him, barely even giving him a second to catch his breath.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different." Sherlock asked him sounding if anything slightly annoyed.

I rolled my eyes at his antics. I could tell that he was secretly pleased that Lestrade had come to him with a case. He had been waiting for this.

"You know how they never leave notes?" Lestrade told him sounding extremely tired. The lines on his face provided all the evidence I needed to deduce that he was nearing his breaking point.

"Yeah."

"This one did," Lestrade told him.

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock asked him.

 _As if you don't know already!_

"It's Anderson,"

 _Surprise surprise!_

"Anderson won't work with me," Sherlock grimaced.

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

"I need an assistant," Sherlock complained. I snorted at him before turning back to look at Greg.

"Will you come?" Lestrade asked us again. I felt bad for the guy, he seemed rather desperate for his help.

If he only knew how desperate Sherlock was to get in on this case.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind," Sherlock answered him. Lestrade looked at me waiting for an answer and I sighed heavily. If I told him yes I would miss my chance to scare away the doctor. If I said no it would mean there will be no one at the scene to keep an eye on Sherlock. Also, I didn't want to miss the opportunity of getting in on this case. It's been bugging me lately. I could see Greg pleading with me through his eyes.

 _It seems Mycroft will have to do the scaring after all._

"I'll come." I finally told Lestrade.

"Thank you," Lestrade told me with a grin before looking at John and Mrs. Hudson for a moment and nodding briefly. He turned around and hurried off back down the stairs. As soon as the door slammed shut down stairs Sherlock leaped into the air and clenched his fists triumphantly before twirling around the room happily.

 _Down boy!_ I rolled my eyes at him but smiled nonetheless. His excitement was catching.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He exclaimed as he picked up his scarf and coat and pulled them on as he headed into the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food," Sherlock called from the kitchen as I sighed heavily.

 _Like hell he will_. He never eats on a case. It was his way of getting me to eat her food.

 _Whatever! I hate dinners._

I shook my head before turning around and trudging down the stairs to wait for Sherlock by the front door.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," I heard Mrs. Hudson reminding Sherlock as I left the flat.

 _You keep telling yourself that, Mrs. H._

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"

Downstairs, I got a hold of his arm so he had to turn to face me grudgingly.

"Can you not look so cheerful maybe? Someone's dead. And you can't be serious about keeping John."

"I don't see any reason not to. He's normal, dull and boring. We can use a bit of that in our life."

 _What a load of horseshit!_

"Damn my leg!" We heard John shout suddenly from the living room and we both turned to look upstairs. I heard John start apologizing to Mrs. Hudson for his outburst.

"So much for being normal. I tell you, Holmes, that guy has issues. He's far from _normal._ And since when do you like normal people anyway?"

Sherlock turned back to look at me with this expression in his eyes that looked like he was planning something. "Exactly, my point." Nothing good ever came out of a look like that. "Army doctor, loyal. He misses the danger. I noticed it yesterday. There's a tremor in his left hand, but not all of the time. There's also the fact that his limp is psychosomatic."

"Cut through the bullshit, Holmes. I couldn't care less about his tremors and limps. What do you want?"

"I need an assistant. Besides he needs to get out. It will cure that bloody limp of his."

"Perfect, now you want to help him. Such a good samaritan." I mocked.

"Isn't that what good flatmates do? Help each other out?"

"How would we know? Besides technically he's not our flatmate yet. I can't even stand the guy. And since when do you care about him and his limp?"

Suddenly he turned his face away, not meeting my eyes. Something about the wall paper that he found fascinating no doubt.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

 _What a rotten liar!_

"Oh God!"

"What?"

"You like him! You, Sherlock Holmes, actually-"

"Shut up! I'm going upstairs to get him, are you coming?"

 _Shit! He likes him. Well this complicate things. I have to regroup. Mycroft!_

"Um why don't you guys go ahead, I'll meet you at the crime scene."

"Where are you going?" he frowned at me suspiciously.

 _Like I'm ever going to tell him._

"Stop with the questions, Holmes. The game is on! See ya in few." I winked and bolted.

 **AN: Well someone doesn't like John. And someone else likes John a lot *winks* .** **About that, I am facing a dilemma guys, need some advice. Should I make this a John-lock story or should I keep things "straight" if you know what I mean? Let me know what you think. Please review.**


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